


Broken Clocks

by AvaCelt



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: M/M, Reincarnation, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:49:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaCelt/pseuds/AvaCelt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers drives his bike across the eastern seaboard, ends up outside Storybrooke, Maine one night, and meets a hatter that looks just like his dead best friend. INCOMPLETE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Edit](http://theoryofthevanquished.tumblr.com/post/51357580769/stucky-au-it-starts-with-a-pair-of-broken-clocks) on my Tumblr.

He learns to adapt to the weather. Otherwise, his faded brown leather would spend six months in his trunk, and the other six on his shoulders. He prefers the all-year-'round deal instead, and learns to deal with the eastern seaboard's frozen whiplash when winter comes around.

It's eight months since his first Avengers mission, and the roadside eatery that's coming up in the next few miles looks great compared to whatever Fury will have in store for him when, not if, a problem arises. He hopes to make a year on his own schedule before he has to work on S.H.I.E.L.D's. But food sounds good. He's been pushing Betty, his bike, for hours now, and some gas in her and burgers in himself sound just fine. The taut leather of his jacket is slicked with the mist of Maine's wispy night, and he thinks a warm booth in the back of an overpriced tourist pit-stop sounds amazing, really. Steve's not the type to complain- not even when he stepped out of a seventy year old icicle.

Maybe that last one's a lie, he admits when the bright, neon sign of the eatery and gas station finally come up. He fills Betty with gas first, grabs a map, hops on the bike again, and then parks it the parking lot behind the eatery.

It's definitely a lie, he thinks. The eatery is fragrant with the smell of beef and potatoes, and Steve thinks it's the best and closest thing to home. He immediately regrets the notion, remembering home is seventy years in the past, and that the icicle should have never saved him, and that right about now, he, Bucky, Peggy, and another dame would all be lindy hopping to one tune or another.

But they're not, and Steve finds himself seated in a booth in front instead of in the back. Another disappointment, another day, he thinks, but orders two burgers, a plate of fries, and a super-sized Coke anyway. Once upon a time, he could hardly fit a handful of fries in his mouth, and today, he's eating so quickly and so efficiently that he knows that Steve Rogers is dead.

The thought's been in the back of his head for a long time. The waitress smiles brightly at him and tells him his food will be here in a jiffy. Her admiration of his looks, or maybe his appetite, brings the “thought” back.

Steve Rogers has been dead for a long time.

He remembers that the original Betty, from World War II, is also dead.

The leather he's wearing right now is hardly original, and even though Howard's son had insisted it was as close to authentic as leather could get these days, Steve had known deep down that everything was a copy of a copy of a copy, and nothing, absolutely nothing, was close to what it used to be.

Steve Rogers has been dead for long time, but still can't seem to get a passage into Heaven like Bucky, Peggy, and all of Bucky's dames had.

The waitress places the stocked plates in front of him, gives him another toothy smile, and leaves him to his business. Steve thinks that if it were 1939, Bucky would attempt to goad him into eating five fries, manage with three, and then wolf down the rest of the meal.

Steve Rogers has been dead for a long time, but Captain America without his disguise is starving, so he starts with a packed burger and goes from there.

He tries not to think while he's consuming the oily meat and the less-than-crisp lettuce. He doesn't need to remind himself that Steve Rogers is dead, and all that remains is a shell that's as shallow and brittle as the glass mug holding his Coke. He thinks that other things are more important at dinner, like the deep scratches in the wooden table his plates are on, or maybe the broken clock above the barkeep's head. He spies a man at the counter, sporting dark black leather, with a blonde woman at his side and the soft cries of their laughter drifting to his ears. He can't even bring himself to think ill of the couple, because he sees companionship, and understanding, and perhaps the beginning of a love story if one hasn't already begun.

The Steve Rogers that had been had always wanted a love story.

Captain America without his disguise now watches romantic comedies in theaters whenever he drives through a city, drinking in the fantastical shows of unrelenting love and limitless passion. The Steve Rogers that had been, had been in love with his motherland and smitten with Peggy Carter. Captain America without his disguise can only bring himself to like his jacket and his bike, and tolerate every other living being. He's not angry, no. Captain America without the shield is merely a six feet, walking log. He's as dull as the shine of the windows adorning the eatery, and as empty as the Coke glass right now. There's not much to do but tolerate, since hatred and love are out of the question.

A tune drifts into his side of the eatery, and a twitch of the waitress's lip tells him that the tune is as familiar as its player. Steve finds that it's an old tune. Not as old as him, he wants to chuckle, but old enough that when Ms. Hill was playing it one evening in the S.H.I.E.L.D rec room, Nick told her to switch to something more today than yesterday.

The tune picks up and becomes something worth dancing to. It's the piano. It's the piano with some violin. It's not a band, but they're regulars and the sounds are beautiful. The couple pay their tab and leave. Steve's plates and glass are empty, and he can only pay attention to the music floating towards him.

Correction: Steve Rogers is dead.

Steve blinks. The waitress comes and tells him that it's Jefferson's day, that his daughter got first place in the science fair, and that Red's filling in for the regular violinist because it's better to have family milling around Jefferson, the town's first veteran since Mr. Gold.

Steve cocks his head to the side (maybe Steve's not dead after all), and breaks into the plastic smile he used to wear during his stage shows. He pays for his food, and follows the music because Steve Rogers loved music almost as much as he loved his motherland, loved it almost as much as he'd loved his dead friend, almost as much as 1939, 1940, and the few remaining years afterward.

He comes into a large room past the restrooms, a backroom turned into a live entertainment hall. A couple of tables, a grand piano, a small plateau for a singer, or a violinist in this case, and the cheers of an audience most likely from the town only another five or ten miles inward.

It's a roadside restaurant next to a gas station, sporting overpriced food and a beaming waitress with laugh lines and calloused knuckles. It's full of the same people from every small town, people that know each other, care for each other, occasionally hate each other, but then come together anyway. He spies a young girl and a young boy laughing shyly, and the music is all there because the audience is as quiet and attentive as Steve Rogers used to be during his medical exams.

The tune heightens and maybe Steve Rogers isn't dead tonight. The clock in this room is broken too. There are about ten people in the audience for this Jefferson who's a veteran and hidden behind the large piano, for his daughter, for this woman with stunning brown hair and red streaks.

Steve remembers a day in 1940 when he caught Bucky attempting to learn a few chords for a lass he'd only met the night before, but was determined to make his before the end of the week.

Captain America without his disguise thinks it's time to go, because staying is intruding, and he intends to go through and out of their town and into the wilderness and catch some shut-eye underneath the cold wind and bare trees instead of under a roof with a warm room. No. Even if Steve Rogers is still alive, though he doubts it, he would want this form of atonement (though, deep down, Captain America without his disguise wonders exactly what crime was committed by Steve, by Captain America, by Captain America without the disguise).

He turns to leave just when the applause breaks out, nice and hearty, not loud enough to disturb anyone, but loud enough to remind everyone that at least someone here deserved to be praised.

Steve doesn't comprehend his turning around to look at the performers again, but he guesses it's because every clock in this place seems to broken, yet his own is still ticking, and it's telling him it's time to turn around.

His eyes aren't grey.

He has a ridiculously large hat, and an equally ridiculous smile. He takes off the offending article, reaches out to the young girl in the audience, and bows before turning the hat for his head again. Then there's the little girl running from her seat and then jumping into his arms.

James Barnes has blue eyes.

Bucky has a daughter.

Steve Rogers turns around, leaves the backroom, goes past the restrooms, the barkeep, out the door, and back to Betty. He touches the smooth metal of her handle, thumbs over the leather of his jacket, and looks up at the darkness above. The night is cold, Steve's fingers are beginning to cool with the temperature, and Bucky Barnes finally learned how to play the piano, even if it was seventy-three years in the making. His heart is pounding. He's sure it hasn't beaten this hard in a long time, and in a long time, he means seventy years.

Bucky Barnes has blue eyes.

And Steve Rogers is alive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Edit](http://theoryofthevanquished.tumblr.com/post/51443672055/stucky-au-broken-clocks-2-welcome-to) on my Tumblr.

Steve Rogers happens to be alive, so Captain America without the disguise is going to try and indulge the living, breathing, feeling Steve.

Captain America without the disguise spent the night riding Betty around in circles, once coming as far as the “Welcome to Storybrooke” sign, only to turn back and head for the hills.

He'd parked (read: hid) Betty in brush and slept underneath a freeway, dreaming of ways to avoid the coming confrontation. When he awoke, a day and a night had passed, and he was starving. There were two options. One dictated a drive back towards Boston, maybe a flick in the movie hall, and then some hidden road to take God knew where. Option two told him to take the twenty mile road into Storybrooke and find some food for his growling stomach.

Steve Rogers, his eyes wide and his hands on Betty's handle, took option two.

He drives into town limits at around four in the afternoon, the roads packed with cars still en route to school to pick up their children, the streets milling with groups of uniformed kids walking home. Steve sees a few buses, and thinks that Bucky would have chosen to walk his kid home rather than have her come home alone. He chuckles and weaves through the crowd to get to the nearest restaurant.

He finds an inn instead, and remembers a shower and a change of clothes would be nice. He parks in one of the many empty spots of the lot behind the cozy-looking building, and makes it in time to catch the woman with the red streaks in her hair.

He's stunned by how beautiful she is. He thinks that if he squints, then maybe he'll see shades of Peggy. (He doesn't have to, he learns, because she's just like Peggy, maybe even more like Peggy than Peggy ever was, and she's kind, and Steve thinks maybe there's hope left for him after all.)

When he comes back outside, his stomach is still growling, but he's clean and freshly clothed now. Two nights ago seems like a annoying dream, because Bucky with his blue eyes is no where to be found, and this small town is so much more friendlier than he'd assumed.

Technically, Steve's a little over ninety years old right now, so there's no reason for him to have a fully functioning memory and cognition system like the average human being. Of course Bucky is a dream, just like Peggy is now, since Miss. Red is the real thing. So is Miss. Red's grandmother, the welcoming sheriff that rents a room a few floors above Steve, and the technician with the foul mouth and good heart.

Steve can get used to this. This is the life he's always wanted after serving his country and paying his dues. It wasn't Brooklyn, it would never be, but it was enough. Steve breathed in the air. There was saltwater nearby. He makes a note to take a walk to the pier after soothing his grumbling stomach. He makes his way through the streets almost free of parents and children. Almost.

What he doesn't expect to see is a clock shop, Bucky, and a little girl running towards him. Bucky catches her while kneeling, then hoists her up before laughing out loud.

Bucky still has blue eyes. Bucky's girl is still laughing and showing him something, something that sets fire to to something deep down in Bucky, and Bucky gives her another long hug before setting her down.

They walk away. Steve turns away.

Seventy odd years ago, Bucky could carry Steve on his back for hours without complaint. After his transformation, he could carry Bucky on his back without breaking a sweat.

2012's Bucky wouldn't even look twice at Steve, much less remember the nights he'd carried him home after Steve was close to passing out from one condition or another.

Steve finds that's walked into a street leading into a small diner near a garage. Steve begins to crumble, and Captain America without the disguise returns, because Steve was dead from the very beginning. Otherwise, this kind of punishment was uncalled for. Captain America without the disguise can't even get drunk, but he needs food, because that's pretty much the only thing that's going to keep him from breaking something.

Steve died a long ago. He's paying for his crimes- for letting Bucky die, for not keeping his promise to Peggy, for not being able to submerge that cube farther into the ocean, for being suspended in animation, for living.

Steve Rogers is dead, but he isn't. He's still here, and he has to atone.

He hates to think about what kind of thoughts would roam his mind if he could get drunk. Not good, he assumes. But then again, maybe while drunk, he'd finally find a way to get that passage to where Peggy was, and wait for this world's Bucky to find him in another sixty years.

The diner is filled with little squadrons of children sipping on hot cocoa, parents lining the counter for their drinks, and one pretty woman with chestnut colored hair that once again reminds him of Peggy's curled brown locks. Maybe a piece of Peggy is going to be in every woman he'll meet for the rest of living days (and deep down, he hopes there aren't too many of those, because he doubts he can make it to next week at the rate his heart is collapsing).

“Captain Rogers?” He turns to the pretty woman who's found herself next to him while he was lost in his thoughts. “Red told me you'd be coming in.”

Miss. Red with her fine, dark locks and vibrant red streaks. “Yes, ma'am,” he smiles, though it never quite reaches his eyes.

“Belle,” she reaches her hand out. “I'll find you a seat, if you give me a minute.”

He nods and shakes her hand, feeling cusps of warmth build up within him despite the continued degradation of his heart. He thinks that maybe if Bucky wasn't alive here, in this town, in this era, he'd probably have stayed and asked Miss. Red if she'd liked to have a dance, if there was a place to dance here. Maybe he'd find a fishing boat, or go back to school so he could get a teaching degree.

Instead, he knows he'll be leaving right after he finishes his meal. He knows he'll grab his stuff, hop on Betty, and be out of the town limits before night falls. He knows he'll keep driving till he runs out of gas, and then he's going to walk until he loses the energy to walk, and then collapse on whatever street he's on, and hope he doesn't have to wake up ever again.

Steve has it all planned out in his head.

What he doesn't plan is Bucky walking in with his daughter as soon as he's seated.

“Jeff, we have another vet in town!” Belle says, though Steve swears she could be singing, with such a soft and harmonious voice.

“Red texted me earlier,” Bucky, who was Jefferson, admonishes, rolling his eyes. “She's been hounding me to say hello since.”

“Well, there he is if you need him,” she twinkles, and Steve's no longer looking at the three. He wonders if he can nod, make an excuse to Miss. Belle, and dip.

“Jefferson Blake, pleased to meet you.”

Steve looks up at the man with stark, blue eyes and merely blinks.

“Captain Rogers?” Belle peeks from behind Bucky who was Jefferson. “This is Sergeant Blake, our most recent veteran. Red told me to get you two acquainted.”

“I apologize for my hometown's meddlesome behavior,” Bucky with the blue eyes deadpans.

“I'm not sorry,” Belle quirks.

“You're never sorry,” says someone from behind the counter. Belle laughs, and Bucky who was Jefferson rolls his eyes again.

“Captain Steve Rogers,” he finds himself saying. “Pleased to meet you too.”

He finds his hand reaching out, and Bucky- Jefferson -takes it.

“Welcome to Storybrooke, Captain.”

And the heart within ceases to crumble.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Edit](http://theoryofthevanquished.tumblr.com/post/51502628174/stucky-au-broken-clocks-3-fancy-meeting-you) on my Tumblr.

The gala's tonight, and Steve still has trouble breathing.

It's not the asthma. He assumes, after the first few minutes of labored breathing, that it might be the gradual return of his heart condition. Or maybe he ate something he wasn't supposed to at the diner, and he's paying for it in kind.

Then he comes to the understanding that it's because he has to attend to the aforementioned gala. Storybrooke only has two veterans. Victor Gold is an attorney now, and runs a pawn shop his grandson likes to spend time in with his friends. Bucky, who was affectionately referred to as Jeff in this world, makes hats and builds houses now. Steve is merely a guest (though he doubts two weeks at the inn and regular meals at the diner hardly count as guesting), but the two beauties of the little town insisted he join because Mr. Gold is snarky at best, while Jefferson (who's still Bucky to Steve) either broods with cheap wine or plays games with the children. They declared that he, Captain Steve Rogers, would bring a healthy balance to the biannual gala usually meant for an old man and a thirty year old hatter. Inwardly, Steve doubted it, but the idea of a gala sounded good at the time. It had been a while since he'd attended an old fashioned gathering, and he knew that despite the changing world, Storybrooke in its tiny corner had suffered minimal damage.

So he'd sad yes, and now he was expected to attend. Steve doesn't even know where his uniform is.

He thinks about calling Howard's son, and asking him if he can helicarry over an imitation of his old uniform. Then he thinks to maybe call Miss. Romanova and Clint, and see if they can grab his old suitcase in his S.H.I.E.L.D quarters and have it over by a S.H.I.E.L.D agent before night falls and the gala begins.

Then he looks through his duffel and finds the jacket and trousers pressed and packaged in plastic, deep underneath the plaids, the slacks, the jeans. At first he thinks that it probably is a duplicate, but when he tears the plastic, the familiar scent of musk and cloves wafts to his nose and he can swear he's back in Colonel Phillips' war room.

Someone was nice enough to give him the one thing he'd hoped to forget about. He doesn't know whether he should file a complaint, and or take it as a sign of good grace.

Though the jacket and trousers had been out of his mind for the better part of the year, his pins and badges were still with him. Steve fishes them out of a small pouch he'd bought from a vendor on one of his first walks in the city. One by one, he fastens one clasp after another, and by the time he's fixed his hair, put on his gloves, and smoothed out his collar, he feels like he can actually handle society. He stands fixed in front of the mirror for the better part of two hours.

He hopes Bucky will be impressed.

“Jefferson wants wine, but Mr. Gold said he prefers ale this time.” Red waves as Steve comes down the stairs, winking coquettishly before returning to her phone call. “At this rate, we'll be bringing in apple juice.”

“Apple juice is good,” Steve remarks, thinking easy conversation is the best kind of conversation, and that Miss. Red looks exceptionally beautiful tonight in her black and green dress.

She grins and nods. “We have a yes from Captain Rogers, so the apple juice it is.” She crinkles her nose as the person on the other line speaks faster. “Jefferson can live without his box wine for one night, and if he can't, we'll just have Captain Rogers knock some sense into him,” she finishes with a wink before hanging up. “Dashing as always, Captain,” she half-bows.

He doesn't know if he can still blush, but he hopes that if he is, then the color in his cheeks actually show. “Thank you, Miss. Red.”

“Would you like me to escort you to the gala?” She asks half-heartedly.

Steve blinks. He hadn't thought about walking in with a date, though he doubted it was even a date to begin with. He inwardly frowns, recalling nights he'd be taken out on dates because of some form of pity or another.

But Miss. Red with the wolf's head charm on her neck and the beautiful smile doesn't pity him, no, she's admiring him. She's respecting him, his rank, his ability to be a fully functioning member of society despite years of service on the battlefield.

Steve hopes he can make her proud.

“Of cou-”

“-I want in, too!”

Miss. Belle latches on one arm, and Miss. Red throws back her head in delight. “And Jefferson's dateless,” the Frenchwoman quirks.

“Even Grace has a date, with Henry no less,” Red stifles a laugh.

“At this rate, it'll be him and his flask,” Belle nods sagely. There's another right of laughter and Steve can't help but laugh along.

He walks with the two most beautiful women he's met in this lifetime, one on each arm, chatting and laughing about the shots about to be fired when Jefferson, his Bucky, figures out the drink bowls are filled with apple juice instead of cloudy wine. Miss. Belle assures him actual shots won't be fired, but Jefferson, his Bucky, will whine, rage, then silently brood, armed with his flask of apple juice. He'll occasionally smile, Miss. Belle tells him. Then he'll join in on the games with his daughter, Miss. Red continues. Then he's going to keep laughing until the sun comes up, and carry his sleeping daughter home, Miss. Belle finishes. Don't be afraid to speak to him, says the dog-lover. He's a sweetheart after the first hour passes, says the Frenchwoman. He's the town hero, they say in unison before bursting out with laughter.

When they come to town hall, the building itself is surprisingly dark whereas the grass surrounding it is bursting with adults and children alike. There's a bit of a chill outside, but no one seems to mind, and Steve catches the eye of the grade school teacher Henry always talks about, and the electrician he'd met on his first day in town, and even the nice nun whose arm is loosely looped around the bearded electrician's arm.

There's no Bucky, but Miss. Belle and Miss. Red are pushing him towards Victor Gold, a willowy man of fifty-two with a mouth sharp enough to cut steel.

“Captain Rogers,” he lilts, his Scottish accent as heavy as the day they'd first met. “Pleasure to see you could join us.”

Steve shakes his hand. “The pleasure's all mine, sir.”

The old man gives Steve a nod, one exuding approval, because it's one of the few things Steve's craved all his life. Even though this man is easily forty years younger, he knows that he at least beats him out in the experience department.

Steve's only twenty-four. Almost everyone but the children beat him out in the experience department.

“Captain Rogers?”

Steve turns around to shake hands with the mayor and her husband, the man who owned the horse stables out in the grassy hills Steve had spent a day trekking up and down. He waved at Henry, who gave him a salute before running off with his friends. He found his eyes traveling to the couple he'd spotted at the restaurant ten miles out the first time he'd seen Bucky.

He's still for a moment, because these people have probably lived here all their lives, and Steve's just an intruder. Maybe, maybe not, but definitely just a guest. But these people were nice, Steve realized earlier, but niceties only lasted so long as Steve knew his place. He didn't think he could keep it up.

“Fancy meeting you here, Captain Rogers. You left me dateless.”

Bucky's wearing navy blue accented with some red, pins and badges as crisp and clean as his collar.

“Apple juice?” He offers, and Steve takes a few seconds to take in the sight before taking the champagne flute.

“Thank you,” he says meekly.

“Box wine would've been better,” the shorter male nods. “But we make do with what we have.”

Steve wants to agree but can't. He couldn't make do with his physique and his medical issues, so he went under the proverbial knife to become... this. Bucky, on the other hand, had enough to grab the old Steve by the waist and whisk him away to the Pacific if he wanted, but instead chose to pay his dues so when he returned, he could take Steve places more beautiful than the Pacific.

Sometimes, Steve wishes his Bucky would remember those promises, those days they spent half-asleep on the roof, the times they'd made plans to exotic places in the country, like Georgia or Louisiana, or even that lump of land they called Cattle Country Texas back in the day.

“You're awfully quiet,” Bucky who was Jefferson but still Bucky, mind you, says. “Haven't been outta service long, have you?”

Steve wants to tell him that he was on a seventy year hiatus before jumping right back into action. But that's hardly apple juice talk.

“Eight months,” he sighs.

“Two years,” he nods, taking a long gulp of his drink, three-quarters of the flute down. “Served for eight.”

“Five,” he tells Bucky with the blue eyes, Bucky who still has a penchant for alcohol, but doesn't mind making do with some apple juice.

Bucky chuckles. “Not bad. You don't look old though. Fresh outta high school and straight to service?”

“Something like that,” he admits.

“I went to the community college first,” he admits. “Had my baby, then went off.”

Steve swallows the lump in his throat. “She looks like you.”

Bucky laughs. It's loud, rambunctious, but welcoming because people smile brightly their way, glad that their resident alcoholic is under some good influence.

“You're a terrible liar,” the shorter man snorts. “And she looks like Alice.”

Steve guesses Alice is the dead wife that Miss. Red and Miss. Belle often spoke of.

“They already blurted it out,” Bucky whispers. “Red and Belle are always going on about it.” He finishes off his drink and turns to Steve and Steve can't help but stiffen at the gaze. “If she'd survived, then I wouldn't have enlisted,” he admits, but there's an aura of finality around him, like the decision was worth it and that there truly wasn't anything wrong with it.

“Who took Grace in?” He asks, though he regrets it immediately.

“Mr. Gold,” Bucky shrugs, waving off Steve's insecurities. “The town pretty much raised her. She learned to write and sent me letters and I sent her pictures and stories. Then Skype came around, and we talked almost every night, except that one month my squad got lost in the desert.”

“But you came back,” Steve says, his heart swelling.

Bucky grins. “I did.”

“She looks like you,” Steve repeats, and this time, he means it.

“I guess she does.”

Steve always imagined of the ways he'd return home with Bucky by his side. They'd go for drinks, even if Steve couldn't get drunk, but he'd happily carry Bucky home on his back because Bucky was his best friend, and if he could manage it past Schmidt's forces to bring him home, then he could manage a couple of bottles of rum and beer.

“Jefferson, the piano's here!”

Steve jerks at the sound of Belle's sweet voice, and his Bucky grins.

“I feel like playing some jazz tonight.”

Steve gulps. “Jazz sounds nice.”

“Grab a dame, and join in,” Bucky tells him, but then grins. “Or a lad, if that's what you'd like.”

Steve stands stunned as his Bucky, the Jefferson of this lifetime, weaves through the crowd and reaches the piano stationed near the steps of the town hall. He begins to play a tune that's reminiscent of something Monk would play, and people, as dictated, grab partners and get on the dance floor the mayor had installed on the grass earlier. Yet Steve is still stunned, and unable to move, and he can't quite stop pursing his lips.

“Captain Rogers?”

Steve looks to see one of the young men that had joined the gala earlier. He's got a shock of bright red hair, a nice sprinkle of freckles on his forehead, and posture that's decidedly envious.

“Yes?”

“A dance, Captain?”

Steve blinks. He remembers that the world's changed a lot since 1939, and that a few extra wars, some massacres, and a good, long cold war was enough to change a feared disease into an acceptable life condition.

Steve can hardly dance with a woman. How is he supposed to lead another man?

“Captain likes me better,” Belle gushes, gently pushing away the taller male.

“I'm actually his height,” huffs the man.

“I'm prettier,” she pouts.

“That's debatable,” he deadpans, and Steve's never been in the middle of a dance triangle between and a man and a woman, and it's all a bit overwhelming.

“Perhaps the Captain would care for another drink?” Victor Gold comes to his rescue, prompting the thin, red haired man to take Miss. Belle by the arm and to the dance floor. Steve looks at his champagne flute of apple juice, still filled to the brim. “My apologies for the town bachelors and bachelorettes, Captain Rogers,” the old man chuckles. “We hardly get outsiders, but when we do, the air changes for all of them.”

“Steve, sir,” he insists.

“But you're hardly an outsider, Steve,” the old man enunciates. “Another veteran in our midst is good for the town morale. A living one? Even better.”

“I'm sorry for your loss, sir.” Steve says.

“Too many in my day,” he admits. “But Jefferson was the first to leave after me, and he came back in one piece, something not many of my comrades had the pleasure of.”

“Most of mine are dead,” Steve admits. Most, not all, he thinks, because Bucky's still playing the piano.

“Jefferson's squad came back alive,” Gold admits. “They visit every few months. He takes Grace and Henry with him when he goes to visit.”

“He's a good man,” Steve says. Monk recedes into Bill Evans. The tempo changes. Steve can't see Bucky in the throngs of people swaying and moving.

“Jefferson is a living, breathing relic of another war. Hopefully it'll be another thirty years before anyone else leaves this town for service.”

Steve sighs wistfully. “Too many have died.”

“And now they're alien attacks, no less,” the Scot guffaws. “The war finally comes to our shores, and with aliens instead of Russians. I'm shocked.”

Steve doesn't want to say just  _how_  shocking those aliens were.

“But it'll be a long time until aliens come to Storybrooke, so hopefully the youth stay put until then.”

Steve thinks Mr. Gold will whack him with his gold-headed cane if he tells him that Captain America is currently mulling around in Storybrooke.

“I guess so,” Steve finally sighs.

“Go dance, boy,” Gold huffs finally. “I have a grandchild, I deserve to stand and drink my apple juice in peace. You look like you've yet to kiss someone. Do yourself a favor and change that tonight.” Victor Gold even has a golden tooth.

Steve drinks his apple juice like it's the purest absinthe he could find. The liquid is sweet and just slightly chilled, and his throat doesn't feel as dry as it did before.

“The Captain turned down Prissy Emperor Kuzco, so he stole the French beauty. Would you like to dance, Mr. Gold?” Bucky grins while Mr. Gold gives him a judgmental look before turning away. The music is still floating from the piano, but it's not Bucky anymore, and he has no doubt that it's Miss. Red's fingers on the keys right now.

Steve breathes in deeply. “I'll dance with you.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. His jacket is smoothed and pressed, and his collar is crisp and clean. He's shorter by a few inches, but he still looks bigger, stronger, healthier than Steve will ever be.

Even after all these years, it's still Bucky.

“My pleasure, Captain,” he chuckles. He reaches his arm out. Steve loops his own through it, like he saw the nun do with her electrician. “Shall we?”

Steve used to feel too small, then too big, but tonight, he feels just right. Bucky's arm is warm.

“Sergeant Jefferson Blake at your service.”

Steve can't dance, but he puts his best foot forward, allowing James Buchanan Barnes, Bucky of 1939, Jefferson Blake of 2012, to take the lead.


End file.
